


Jon vs. The World

by coldho



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, chapter 2 is a sickfic Not Really turns out it was everyone is anxious or grieving all along, chapter 2 or: it’s a good thing jon wasn’t victorian or he would’ve been diagnosed with The Fevers, complete disregard for bike etiquette, jon voice: im a professional. i am looking away from my staff. i am lookin - i am looking aWaY., sappy af it’s what they deserve, slight emetophobia but just like mentioned feeling like no actual, so not canon compliant my meat is huge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldho/pseuds/coldho
Summary: There’s one common thread connecting Jon’s partners: They like to go outside. Jon, however, does not.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist (past), Georgie Barker/Melanie King (brief), Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	1. I want to ride my biiiiiicycle, biiiiiicycle, biiiiiicycle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taniushka12](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taniushka12/gifts).



> I was going to set this chapter after Sasha ran into Michael (Sasha voice: I’m not walking to work after that shit) but then I realized there’s a PERFECT statement for this. Domestic AU slice of life fuck that plot shit is where it’s at y’all. But I will say. AU where they’re Elias’ backup archive staff that just kind of reads statements to like. Casually power the Eye. Because he realized it’s probably a bad idea to fuck around with someone touched by the web. Assume Martin’s apartment worm infestation still happened but afterwards Elias had to give Jane a Talking To about not eating his unionized workers go for the Actual archive staff.
> 
> Inspired by [the motorbike post](https://radiosandrecordings.tumblr.com/post/614773467147059200/i-may-not-be-one-to-often-jontim-but-i-think-when) by [radiosandrecordings](https://radiosandrecordings.tumblr.com) and by msgs from 100 yrs ago with [yaboyspodcastpalace](https://yaboyspodcastpalace.tumblr.com) about Jon dating bike-riding hazards to society and people that like going outdoors aka something he has never done.

“I could take them home with me, Jon!” Sasha chirps from across the room. Jon shakes his head with a sigh.

“No, Sasha, this wasn’t assigned to you; I’ll just,” he sighs again, deeply, “Stay late. It’s fine.”

“Not when you could go home and get some sleep,” she reprimands. She crosses the room into the recording room, long limbs scooping up the stack of books before Jon can stop her. “Did I tell you I got a bike? It has a basket and everything, and I don’t have any plans tonight - “

“You got a bike?” he says before he can stop himself. He should’ve told her that he could just as well carry them home, but, well. She got a bike.

 _Sasha_ got a _bike_.

She laughs, brighter than any windchime, but almost embarrassed, cheeks slightly flushed. “Yes it’s - ah, it’s silly!” She scrubs a hand through her braids, propping the books on her hip, corners of her eyes crinkling. Jon glances down at his desk. “You remember Karolina Gorka’s statement? The one on the tube?"

“Of course,” he replies. What kind of boss would he be if he forgot a statement? “You aren’t on the Victoria Line, though, are you?”

“No,” she says, “But Victoria Station, Victoria Line?”

“Spooky!” calls Tim from where he’d very clearly been eavesdropping from the other room. Sasha hisses a little _Tim_ that doesn’t quite crease her forehead. She’s still smiling, though less sheepish than before.

Jon frowns, but nods; he’d like to think he’s been getting better about restraining judgement for the statements, whether he actually bears it or not. 

Not casual, of course. Restrained. He’s still their boss. 

“Just a bit of superstition,” Sasha corrects, drawing him back in, “Plus, I’d been meaning to get a bike anyways. They’re economical.”

“Dangerous though,” Jon mumbles, a little unfocused. He does notice Sasha blink, and flushes sharply when he realizes she’d heard him. “I mean - with London traffic, you should be careful!”

“Of course,” she agrees, slowly, then blinks again, “I do wear a helmet, and I keep to the correct side of the road.”

“Yes - of - yes,” he says weakly, redder by the second. He startles when she snaps, nearly dropping the books off her hip in her enlightenment. “How about this - there’s a book festival near you this weekend! Why don’t I drop by and we can go together? This way you can see my biking skills up close.”

Sasha, Jon thinks, brave and relaxed and so confident. Hard-working and listening and _dear God she wants her bike near him_

“I - I’m not sure that would be...ah, appropriate?” he says, harriedly. She laughs, brighter than before.

“You never know the range of literature,” she muses, “Who knows, we could find something for work. A Leitner even!” 

“I - suppose,” he says. “This weekend?”

“Yes, and it’s almost five - _these_ ,” she winks, jostling the books in her arms, and Jon’s near-faded blush returns full-force, “Will be my hostages until we come up with a plan tomorrow.”

-

The _Thing_ is, Georgie had also had a bike when they’d dated. It had been years since he’d last ridden it, yes, but he _remembered_ that bike. 

Georgie isn’t tall, so he knows his memories are exaggerated, but he remembers it being a very big, very bulky mountain bike. It was electric green with a matching helmet. Georgie had joked that the color reminded her of ectoplasm. Perfect mascot for her then-nascent _What the Ghost_ plans; she’d just need, she explained, to don a white sheet whenever she rode it. 

He remembered when she’d shown up outside of his apartment with it the first time. It was nearing the end of fall semester, and it was _cold_. They had plans for date night at a very cozy cafe near-campus. When he’d opened the door, she didn’t have the bike with her since he lived up two flights of stairs, but there was a helmet tucked under her arm.

“I thought we were getting coffee?” he asked, squinting at the helmet. He remembers being very, _very_ wary. 

“I bought a bike,” she said, muffled because she was wearing a bulky scarf pulled up so far over her mouth it mostly obscured her vision. She was wearing her puffiest coat, too, and it definitely obscured her range of motion.

He _knew_ he’d had a bad feeling.

“It’ll be fun,” she said while tugging him into a beanie, “Fresh air! You hole yourself up inside _way_ too much.”

“I like it inside,” he responded. “Less volatile.”

“You’ll have to ride on the handlebars,” she said without warning, manhandling him into thick socks, “Takes a bit of balance, but it’s not too bad.”

“ _Georgie,”_ he squeaked. 

It eventually turned into a shriek, because he’d soon learned why Georgie bought a genuine mountain bike; she liked to _off-road_ . In _London._

“Less ice!” she’d yell during the winter as she wove them between cars, him paralyzed on the handlebars.

“Less time!” she’d yell during the semester as she flew through Oxford hallways, Jon hunching to hide his mortified face in his shirt while their classmates cheered them on.

“Less traffic!” she’d yell during the summer as she jumped the sidewalk, Jon screeching and tipping back with every bump.

“I could teach you,” she’d offered once. “I can ride the handlebars.”

“ _No,_ ” he had said, emphatically.

It’s not to say that he hates bikes, but he _hates bikes._

-

It doesn’t help that the Friday before, Tim slips up to his desk unannounced. Sasha had taken a half-day in thanks of her extra work. She’d left with a wave and a grin before lunch. Ten AM sharp!

Jon had smiled back, hard knuckling the underside of his desk while his stomach rolled. _Bikes._

“Sounds like you and Sash’ll be having fun tomorrow,” Tim says, casually, leaning up against his desk, casually. “Wild time hitting the books!” he says, casually, shooting finger-guns for emphasis.

Jon stares. Squints. “It’s for...research,” he finally replies.

“Uh-huh,” Tim says, “Right, well, I used to be in publishing.”

“I know,” Jon agrees.

“Know my way around books.” 

“Yes,” Jon agrees. 

“Cool, I could pick you up instead?” he says, casually, and Jon realizes that everything about Tim’s posture is _awkward_. 

“Oh!” he says. “Oh, I - Tim do you want to come with us?” 

“I mean, I’d be down,” he replies, nodding very unsubtly. “Books are great.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees, wheels spinning, “I don’t think there are any vendors with a specialty in architecture; actually, Sasha and I were planning to focus on texts in the supernatural genre, originally, but the festival seems mostly fiction-aligned. Still,” Jon shrugs, finger tapping at the top of his desk, concentrating, “It doesn’t hurt to take a look.”

“That’s, yeah,” Tim says, “Love. Fiction. I can pick you up, I’m _licensed_ for a _motor_ bike.”

Jon thinks the emphasis he hears on motor is due to his own judgement; so loud, bad for the environment - he doesn’t want Tim to think he disapproves, but he can’t help but scrunch his nose. He’s quick to cover it up, shifting a statement up to cover the bottom half of his face. Does his whole staff have horrible taste in transportation?

“Oh, ah,” he falters, “Sasha wanted to, um, showcase her skills...with her own bike…”

“Right,” Tim agrees, “Yeah, she’s. She’s great at that. At riding bikes. Does it a lot. Experience.”

Tim jerks his head sharply, makes a strange motion with his hand near his throat. Jon frowns.

“Tim are you - are you alright? Is there a fly -“

“I’m great!” he cuts off, turning red, “Peachy! I’ll text Sasha! See you tomorrow!”

“Wait, we have another hour -”

Tim speedwalks across the room to his own desk.

“- Of work?”

-

He’s outside of his apartment almost thirty minutes early. He’s usually not a morning person, but he was feeling a bit off last night. Couldn’t sleep much, woke up early. He’d pushed away the why, though, in favor of caffeinated tea and staring at his closet, taking an actually appropriate amount of time to choose an outfit. _Haven’t spent this long on my wardrobe since I was first promoted,_ he muses while he waits. 

He then spends a significant amount of time adjusting his glasses while he squints down at his shoes; it’s spring and he’s going to be outdoors, so sandals would’ve made more sense, but he’ll also be walking - or God-forbid riding a _bike -_ , so of course close-toed shoes are necessary for safety…

“Should I change?” he mumbles, then shakes his head. He might miss Sasha’s arrival, and he doesn’t want her to think he’d been dawdling, so he looks up, attent, -

She’s _fifteen_ minutes early and a _sight_ . Her round glasses have been replaced by round sunglasses, braids neatly pushed back by a headband, pressed blouses and pants swapped for a striped cotton jumpsuit that matches sweetly with her bike - which couldn’t be any more different from Georgie’s. The bike is almost-vintage, powder blue with a white seat and white wheels. It even has a genuine wicker basket; he’s _relieved_ to note that there’s even a second helmet. 

He’s glad she didn’t miss her. He’s glad he agreed to this.

“I hope you weren’t waiting too long!” she says, so, so bright, “You’re a little red, but don’t worry, I brought sunscreen.” 

She gestures to the backpack slung over her shoulder - two water bottles hanging off the sides and an extra hat clipped to the front - and he almost melts. “I,” he says, “No, I was early, you’re perfectly on time.”

When he doesn’t quite move, she tilts her head. Smiles. “Fantastic,” she murmurs, then claps her hands. “Okay! Tim said he’d try and meet us later, I can text him after we get there. I’m not sure what you’re plan was, but we could walk? Or,” she offers, tapping at her chin, “You could ride with me? It’s a bit unprofessional, but Tim and I have actually tried this. We figured out a way to balance in the basket; it’s a bit safer than just riding on the handrails.”

There’s a ding in the back of Jon’s mind, but he ignores it. Smiles shyly back. “I’m, ah, a bit bigger than Tim, and not nearly as balanced...”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Sasha says, offering her hand, “I’ve got you.”

-

 _She did not have him._ **_She absolutely did not have him._ **

Jon will say that she has slightly more bike etiquette than Georgie - not that that syas _anything. H_ e keeps his eyes tightly closed for most of the ride, but when he does manage to peel them open, he notes that Sasha mostly avoids the sidewalks and pedestrians and will yell _BEHIND YOU!_ when she has to get near them. But her apologies do not make up for her constantly jaybiking across streets and considering red lights recommendations rather than rules - 

Eyes shut, he clenches his jaw. _Sasha’s a risk taker_ , he repeats over and over in his head, _this is why you wanted her for the position. I did not intend to puke on her ever but she is a risk taker and sometimes risks -_

She swerves into the wrong lane with a giggled ‘sorry!’. He thinks he might puke on his coworker.

-

“Sorry if it was a bit bumpy,” she says with a slight laugh while Jon stumbles off the bike, “Tim and I have only tried double riding a couple of times.”

He’s dizzy and his legs feel like limp pasta, but it’s the same laugh. Opening his eyes to meet hers (and also to get a better steadying grip on the bike rail she’d parked them by), he thinks the dizziness isn’t all physical. Just mostly.

Very mostly.

“No,” he says, willing his voice not to slur or catch because his stomach acid is still out of control, “You did - that was - good. I used to, with my ex-girlfriend. I definitely prefer riding with you.”

The last part comes out unintentionally. It’s hard to see through the reflection of her sunglasses, but he knows that her eyes go wide.

“Sorry - “ he tries to apologize, embarrassed for his lack of professionalism.

“I’ll add it to my resume - “ she jumbles over him. They stop again. 

Sasha smiles shyly, lips closed.

“I could use a bit of a rest, then on to the books?” she says, twisting to pull the water bottles out of her bag. She passes one to Jon, cautiously, her pinky finger nudging against his outstretched hand. He blinks, swallows, and -

Takes the bottle with his other hand. Her smile widens, teeth peeking through as she loops her fingers through his.

-

Tim texts that he might be able to make it late, with a very pointed ‘if either of you wants to stay longer, _let me know and I’ll join_ ’ that Jon suddenly understands. But it’s him and Sasha and books that aren’t spooky, or Leitners, or anything related to work. They linger in the supernaturals, but it’s him admitting that he’d never read Pride and Prejudice, only Pride, Prejudice, and Zombies to Sasha’s delighted gasps and her gushing about Frankenstein as a metaphor for motherhood while he stares in rapt attention. It’s them indulging in overpriced tea and egging the other on to buy even-more overpriced books.

She groans over a receipt while unable to let the book out of her sight and he stares at her with tomes open in his throat.

When it comes time to leave, though, they snap shut.

“Ah, um, yes,” he stammers once they’ve walked back to her bike, voice weak, “I, ah, it’s a bit late, yes.”

She hums from where she’d knelt to unchain the bike.

“I, uh,” he says, then blinks. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. He also doesn’t want to ride The Bike back. 

He knows what she’d want to hear.

“I’m _really_ not a fan of bikes,” he says, “It’s not you, I’m just - I’m _really_ not very good with them.”

She tilts her head up, eyes big, then laughs. Her hands slap over her mouth, but a few giggles still escape.

“Sorry!” she says, “Sorry, sorry - I could...I could tell. I’ll text Tim - you don’t have to ride the handlebars of a motorbike, it’s basically like a car, just open.”

He tries to apologize again, to insist that he can walk, but she flaps her hand at him, already on her phone. “No walking home, it’s too far! I may have actually texted Tim earlier - just in case. It didn’t sound too much like he was planning on coming with, but I wanted to make sure you’d have a ride. Better safe than sorry.”

“Thank you,” he says, so sincere that he startles himself. Her eyes are big on him again, only to look briefly away as she pushes herself up to perch on the bike rail. 

She’s taller than him. Seated like that - she’s still taller than him. He blinks up at her; she blinks down at him.

“Did you ride often with your ex?” she asks, soft.

He pauses, focuses on her shoulder. “Yes - I, uh, I wasn’t too great with communication.”

She hums, then leans towards him. Slowly, gently, her hand shifts down to his; at his nod, she once again loops her fingers through his.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says, and there is a moment where all the words leave his lips as hers meet his.

-

“Sorry I didn’t make it clearer earlier,” Tim says at a stoplight after picking up Jon. Tim, Jon is relieved to find, is an excellent (motor)biker. They might be loud and awful for the environment, but motorcycles do require licenses and a strict adherence to street safety. 

Come to think of it, Tim is the least likely of his staff to break the law. Sure, he’s manipulated cops, but that isn’t a _crime._ God knows Sasha hacks records daily. Hell, even Martin’s broken into a statement giver’s apartment.

 _Sasha,_ he thinks, and almost stifles a sigh into Tim’s jacket. Into Tim’s jacket because, he turns his attention to instead, pulling himself back, because motorbiking requires more than just wearing a helmet. It requires passengers to sit in the actual seat and hold onto the actual biker. 

_Thank God._

“You rode the handlebars, right?” Tim asks. Jon nods, chin thumping slightly against Tim’s shoulder. He jerks back sharply; he doesn’t have to be _quite_ so close.

“Yeah, I had to _teach_ Sasha that shit because I had to _teach her how ride a bike_ ,” he moans, “Jesus Christ it was _horrible_ the _second_ we started she was hitting geese in the park. I guess it’s her big brain keeping her alive and nothing else.”

The words haven’t quite come back to him yet, but Tim doesn’t seem to mind. He hums softly, tilts his head back so their helmets almost tap together.

“Still, we both love her anyways,” he says in a voice Jon knows means something much, much deeper.

“Yes, we do,” he replies, knowing he’ll regret it later. Tim barks a laugh, reaches back to pat his knee before the light turns green.

“Let’s get you home,” he says, and Jon doesn’t bother to hide his smile in Tim’s jacket. 

-

BONUS:

“You should’ve cut through the backyard!” Melanie shouts as Georgie races through the park, cackling as she’s nearly flung off the handlebars. 

“As if,” Georgie replies, narrowly skirting around a picnicking family and bouncing them up over the roots of a tree, “We would’ve had to navigate fences and shit!”

“Nah,” Melanie says, rolling her eyes, “I’m right! And I’m biking us back to prove it!”

“You're _ON_ ,” Georgie says, and whoops as they skid out onto the roadway.


	2. C-A-M-P-F-I-R-E S-O-N-G song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Tim go camping. Jon and Tim somehow forget all emotional processing. Turns out it was anxiety and grief all along!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [taniushka12](https://taniushka12.tumblr.com) your art but especially [THIS PIECE](https://tanis-drawings-2point0.tumblr.com/post/622653462273048576/jontim-stargazing-and-tim-being-a-lil-bit-of-a) is why this whole fic exists thank you for your service 😳 and HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY AND BELATED SAG SEASON AND BELATED CHRISTMAS!! Literally this was supposed to be your gift in December but here we are. It’s February. Rest in piss @ myself. What the fuck happened here.
> 
> Side note I also think of [this Tim post](https://sagittaritits.tumblr.com/post/636070871704961024/tim-stoker-canonically-has-a-masters-degree-in) every day of my life….much like Tim, many thoughts head full. Also because he’s big brained I tried to remember good camping decisions but I wasn’t about to do actual research! (my camping history is Chaotic and Tim’s too smart to be like me aka sleeping absolutely wasted in a river. not accepting questions here.)
> 
> And heads up my writing is really like: “[insert person] stares”. What’s with all the staring. Stop perceiving each other. Also heads up there’s some anxiety and grief, mainly in the second half. Speed run rom-com to hurt/comfort.

“He’s never been camping,” Tim bemoans, “Just. Never. I can’t even imagine.”

It had all started during their lunch break, when Tim brought up his recent viewing of _The Wolf Man_ at an underground cinema while waiting for his turn at the microwave. Jon, as per usual, had related his personal experience to work - statement of Lawrence Mortimer, regarding a Hunt gone wrong in the Appalachian Mountains - which Tim had, as per usual, tugged back around to learn about Jon’s personal experiences. It was your typical lunch time banter, but the camping thing - that stuck with him.

Sasha laughs. “Tim, not everyone grew up with a family as outdoorsy as yours.”

Tim sighs, deep and disparaging, bringing a hand to rest dramatically on his sternum. “‘Tis a shame, truly - hold on, Sash’, you’ve been camping, right?”

She hums, tapping at her chin. “I suppose; a few of my parents' art trips involved staying outdoors? I think I went once during college, too, for a class…”

Tim rounds on Martin before she can finish. “Martin! Camping?” 

Deer in the headlights, Martin freezes at his computer, hands hovering mid-type. “I - uh - what?”

“Don’t act like you weren’t eavesdropping,” Tim sighs, “Please tell me you’ve been camping?”

“Not as a kid,” he replies, after a moment of blinking, “Uuuh...,” he pauses to stare at Sasha, then at the closed door of the recording room. When he turns to meet Tim’s eye again, Tim winks.

“College?” Tim asks. Martin’s hands drift down to rest on his desk, shoulders slumping slightly in relief.

“Yeah,” Martin agrees, nodding carefully, then genuinely, “Once or twice; just in parks and...other places...where you can stay...legally.”

“Cheeky!” Tim says with a laugh. “Always knew you had it in you, Martin.” 

The shy smile on Martin’s face and the giggle Sasha lets out buoy him, but he can’t help but frown again as he turns back to his computer. Jon’s never been camping. Not with family, not with friends, nothing. He hasn’t been in a while, either, to be fair. Since Danny - well. He hasn’t really had a buddy for that kind of thing. 

He squints at the recording room door. There’s a long weekend coming up…

Like fate, the door swings open. Tim is out of his chair like a shot.

\--

“So, we, uh, we just leave the car...here?” Jon asks, fidgeting nervously at the straps of his backpack. It’s just sitting in the middle of an empty clearing. There aren’t any lines for parking. Jon may not drive, but from his recent experience with Tim’s motorbike he knows that they can’t just leave it here, especially since it’s a rental.

“Yeah,” Tim says with a grin. It falters for moment as his eyes ghost over Jon’s face, “We don’t have much stuff, but I figured better safe than sorry, so it’s not much of a hike to the spot - ”

“No,” Jon says, consciously attempting to smooth his forehead, “No, this is, this is - fine, I just wanted to - make sure?” He means to say, but it comes out as a question. Tim’s grin returns full force.

“Oooh, catch me in the know, I like it,” Tim says, “Promise I know enough to get by!”

“I’ll,” Jon says, pausing, looking to the ground, face feeling warm even under his hat, “I’ll keep testing you, then.”

“Tables are turned out here, boss,” Tim jokes, hefting his hiker’s backpack up higher on his back, “Your Archives have nothing on my great outdoors! Every man for himself out here!”

“Dog eat dog world?” Jon asks.

“You got it,” Tim says with an affirming snap, “Man eat man if we run out of snacks, though, and I’m getting hungry! Let’s get a leg on.”

Tim pulls out a map from somewhere deep in his heavy-duty fanny pack. Jon had gotten embarrassedly flustered over it earlier when Tim had met him outside the apartment.

Things like this are why Jon had asked him to join the Archives; Tim is _organized_. In publishing, his organization was probably the norm, but academia is a different realm entirely. Organization isn’t all that common at the Institute and when it is present, it’s organization for one’s own sake. Even Sasha, brilliant as she is (and Jon can’t help but smile at the thought), has her limits.

But Tim was _different_. The week before the trip, Tim had brought him a backpack.

“It’s smaller than the bag I’ll be bringing,” Tim explained, “But it’s water-resistant. It’s not supposed to rain, but you never know. Plus, there’s a creek. Probably.”

He’d paused, wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes. “Sorry - you can pack all your clothes and stuff in there. I might ask if I can stash some of the supplies with you, but it’ll just be food, maybe a pound or two. I’ll text you what clothes you need - do you have hiking boots? I think I have an extra pair in your size.”

Tim’s mind was off a mile a minute, but the intent was clear; the plan was clear. Tim was _organized_ , and Jon couldn’t help but stare, rapt, as Tim’s body moved with the flow of his mind, fingers ticking off items, legs already directing him into the next step.

And even though Tim hadn’t arrived quite on time to pick Jon up, the second he stepped out of the car, it was _go_.

“Hiking shoes are on the floor-board - I picked up some socks, too, change into them whenever you want. Oh - I’ve got a couple pounds of snacks for your bag if you’re up to take them. Ready to go?” he’d finally asked, hand sweeping through his hair into a belated wave. Jon had only been able to nod, eyes wide. 

As they make their way through the woods, he stares at Tim’s back, and he knows what all he’d brought - map in Tim’s hand and the rest in his bag: tent, sleeping bags, firestarters, sunscreen, bugspray, first aid kit, a collapsible cookware kit, water for hydration and electrolyte packs. There’s a soft cooler packed with foil-wrapped packets of sausage, onions, green beans, and potatoes for dinner, oatmeal and peanut butter and berries for the mornings, pre-made pb&j and protein bars and trail mix just-in-case, tea bags and ingredients for s'mores. He pauses mid-step, shakes his head; Tim had told him on the way that those last items were in his own backpack. 

Tim, somehow in tune with his step, even as he’s in tune with the map, in tune with their path, pauses to glance back at him. “You doing okay?”

“I - yes,” Jon says. Tries to smile. Mostly squints into the sun. Tim winks. 

Tim’s organized for himself, yes, but he’s also organized for others. It’s anything _but_ every man for himself. 

\--

The thing is, though, Jon did not grow up with much in the way of the outdoors. There were exceptions as he grew older; Georgie and now Sasha biked (insofar as it could be called biking), and Jon had briefly gotten into LARPing in college. But he had never biked himself, and Sasha and he had relegated themselves to indoor activities since the festival, and LARPing was almost always in neat little parks in Oxford. Bournemouth may have had sand and sea, but he hadn’t been raised with dirt or trees or bugs.

So while it isn’t every man for himself, it _is_ one man causing problems for everyone else.

“I have directions, if you’d like to take a look?” Tim offers, smiling sheepishly. Jon glowers at the poles in his hands.

“It’s just a triangle,” he scoffs, “I was very good at geometry.”

“It’s not a triangle,” Tim says, almost tripping over his words as though he hadn’t meant to speak. He pauses, then laughs, waving a panel of the tent. “That wasn’t - it’s _definitely_ not a triangle, just. Okay, so you’ve never been camping.”

Jon bristles, tapping the pole into the ground. He doesn’t mean to, either, but there’s a burn scrubbing up over his neck and tension rolling across his shoulders. He’s not usually one for sunscreen, but he should probably put some on.

“I told you that, didn’t I?” he snaps, still tapping. Tim stops grinning. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, then tilts his head, “Some of them are. The cartoons do triangles, right? This one’s more of a hexagon, I’d say,” he continues, seriously. Then he pauses, looks away, towards the sky, smiling slightly into the light. “Actually, you’re good at geometry - what’s the 3D version of a hexagon?” 

_Sunscreen, I should put sunscreen on_ , Jon thinks, and accidentally stabs the pole deep into the ground. That startles Tim to attention, all wide-eyes and gaping-mouth.

“Oh shit,” Tim says.

“Sorry,” Jon starts, but Tim’s mouth closes into a grin.

“You’re in charge of the stakes! That always takes me a hammer,” Tim laughs. Jon rubs the back of his neck, all thoughts of sunscreen out of his head.

\--

He ends up being much slower than Tim at getting the stakes in the ground, although he notices that Tim doesn’t say anything about it. Tim also takes charge of putting the tent up. Jon isn’t sure what to think of it; it’s hot, and he’s sweaty.

“Hike next?” Tim says once the tent is up and the food is secured. He pauses, squinting at his backpack on the ground, before swinging it up and around his shoulders. “We’ve staked our claim on our spot - now to explore!"

“Should we leave the bags?” Jon asks. Tim grins, shoots finger guns.

“Hot girl summer,” he says, “I’m getting in my resistance training.” 

Jon isn’t very athletic (or athletic at all), but he pulls his bag on too while Tim fidgets with the straps of his. And then they’re off.

They’re barely fifteen minutes into what Tim had plentifully assured would only be an hour, maybe hour-half max, hike that Jon steps open-mouthed through a swarm of gnats.

“Oh god,” Tim says as he tries, blatantly, not to laugh, Jon doubled over and hacking flies into the dirt. “Okay, water?”

“I’m fine!” Jon gags; speaking makes it worse. He hacks an impressive lung and loogie of masticated insects, a strangled laugh escaping Tim.

“Wow,” he says, “If you wanted protein - ”

“Tim!” Jon squeaks, but there isn’t much ire behind it. Tim seems to get that, crouched half over him, hands hovering at Jon’s back if he’d like something to lean on. Jon thinks he does, but he really, really shouldn’t.

Tim stays where he’s at, silent until Jon stops coughing. Then he offers another bottle of water. “Water?” he asks, again.

Jon eyes it warily, still doubled over with hands on his knees. He _really_ doesn’t want to swallow the remnant mouthful of gnats, and spitting after that display? Out of the question.

But Tim, of course, seems to get it. “It’ll help rinse your mouth,” he says in a singsong. Teasing, but not. There’s a hint of something nervous there, Jon thinks; but he doesn’t focus on it, barely able to restrain himself from grabbing for the water.

“Thanks,” Jon mumbles, hand over his mouth as he takes a swig.

\--

Twenty minutes pass before they come across a creek. It’s not very wide and there are plenty of rocks to step across, but the water is spilling down the bank in a rush. Tim blinks.

“So,” he says, “I would’ve warned you about this part, but I really thought it’d be a bit more dried out since it’s the summer. I don’t think we’ll get wet, since there are a lot of rocks, but I can cross first with my bag, then come back for yours and show you where to step?”

Jon stares at the water, trying very hard to keep his brows unfurrowed. He knows it isn’t that bad - there are a lot of rocks, flat-surfaced and big, protruding up past the water line - but he really hates wet socks and he doesn’t want to _think_ about what’s been in that water.

His balance should be okay, though. “It’s fine,” he says, haltingly, “I can carry my own bag.”

Tim raises a brow, but shrugs. “Less work for me!” he says, a bit forced, and Jon feels something hot in his chest. He’s not sure what it is, but he does know that something is off, even though he’s doesn’t think Tim doesn’t believe in him. “Quick break for water?”

“I’m good,” Jon replies, eyes on his feet. Tim nods slowly, but downs half a bottle anyways, staring hard at Jon all the while.

Once he’s done, they make their way to the bank. “Age before beauty,” Tim calls as he steps easily onto the first rock. Jon wavers behind him. “Step where I step, okay?”

“Right,” Jon affirms, following as Tim moves onto the next rock. 

“I haven’t been bouldering in a while,” Tim muses, jumping between rocks with a grace that makes Jon wobble even more. The rocks are easy enough, some water-slick, some dusted with sand, but the occasional skid of his shoes against rock is manageable. That hot feeling is still deep in his chest, though, swelling slightly with every step. “Maybe on our next excursion! Lifting all those files in the Archives does _wonders_ for the biceps.”

 _Next excursion_ , Jon hears, and that hot feeling boils over, and his feet slip between the rocks - 

“ _Tim -_ ” Jon yelps. Unwillingly, he tumbles forward, arms pinwheeling for the nearest hold: Tim’s backpack, just as Tim starts to turn. His hands grab onto one of the sleeping rolls hooked to the front of the pack, and as Tim twists to catch him under the arms, he pulls.

“Oh shit,” Tim swears, grabbing him by the shoulders, the arms, the waist. Holding Jon stable, Jon’s upper body half-collapsed against Tim, one of Jon’s feet still in the creek but the other steady on rock. “Are you okay?”

“I - yes,” Jon starts, eyes wide and focused on the creek, “Tim -”

“Is your foot okay?” Tim asks, eyes skating up and down Jon frantically, “Wet, yeah, but did you feel anything pop?”

“No,” Jon says, urgent, pointing his hands, “Tim -”

“Okay,” he says, nodding frantically, “Okay _good_ , nothing twisted? Maybe keep weight off it until we can get across and give it a check. Here, I’ll take your bag -”

“ _Tim,_ ” Jon says, louder, waving his hands, “ _The sleeping roll_.”

“Whuh -” he says, finally looking, “Oh. Fuck.”

Their second sleeping roll is floating down the creek. At this point, it’s too far away to catch, almost around the bend.

Tim barely focuses on it, blinking and shrugging just as fast as he’d processed it’s lost. “Such is camping,” he mumbles, frazzled, then turns back to Jon. “I can take your bag for this second half.”

“Tim,” Jon startles, but doesn’t stop Tim as he slips the bag off of Jon’s back and onto his own front. 

“Accidents happen,” Tim says airily, focus returning as he moves to continue across the creek. “Did I tell you about the time I dropped my tent off a cliff?”

“I - No,” Jon replies. If not for the hand Tim keeps circled lightly around his wrist, Jon knows he would’ve remained, frozen, on the rock. Frozen, even though his chest is still hot. It also feels tight.

\--

They wrap up the hike with no other delays, although Jon’s sure he’d slowed them down; it’s definitely been at least two hours. His ankle doesn’t hurt, but Tim keeps dropping back to walk next to him. It twinges, a little, heart speeding up every time Tim falls into step with him. He tries not to focus on it, though. What he’s feeling isn’t pain - but it also isn’t quite annoyance, or incompetence. 

_It must be the sun_ , Jon thinks, even though he waves off the water whenever Tim offers it to him. Tim doesn’t push him when he does.

The clearing is the same as it was when they return. Tim sets the bags on top of a conveniently placed tree trunk, quickly starting to sort out their supplies. Jon hovers at the other end of the trunk, hands fluttering between the pockets of his shorts and crossed over his chest. He’d like to help, make up for his fall, but Tim has a system. It’s - _reassuring_ , he thinks - to watch. Mark of a good employee. He’d made a good decision.

He feels warm the longer he watches Tim, so he bends and reaches for one of the water bottles Tim had placed off to the side. He takes a swig, wrinkling his nose at the earthy taste. It makes sense, he guesses, seeing as he had flies in his mouth.

Tim looks up, ghost of a smile on his face, and then does a double take.

“Oh shit - don’t drink it!” Tim yelps, scrambling for the bottle and slipping on a tupperware. Jon blinks, pulls the bottle away from his mouth.

“What -” Jon starts, then stops. Closes his eyes, lowers the bottle to the ground, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Tim had forced them to take a break at the creek after Jon had tripped, saying something about getting some river water for later. Jon had been too busy trying to block all of _the incident_ out to pay much attention.

After a moment, he takes a deep breath, and Tim looks mortified when Jon opens his eyes. “Why’d you get river water, again?” he asks, trying to temper his voice. 

“I was going to use it on the dishes,” Tim replies, something in his face twitching. He’s clearly trying to manage the tone of his voice, too. Jon understands; he should’ve been paying attention to Tim earlier. “So they wouldn’t get all nasty.”

“Oh,” Jon says, because of course that makes sense. 

“Yeah,” Tim says, face unreadable. 

They stare at each other in silence for a minute.

“It should be okay,” Tim tries, “You just took a sip?”

“Yeah,” Jon says.

“Good,” Tim says.

They stare at each other in silence for another minute. Tim breaks the silence with a blink, bouncing to his feet and clapping his hands.

“Okay,” Tim says, voice and face careful, “I am...going to make this up to you. Sit back, I’m going to make you the best goddamn three-course campfire meal you’ve ever had.”

“Okay,” Jon says, surprised. Just in case, he doesn’t insist on helping, shifting quietly instead to sit on the trunk. Tim goes to rapidly sort out the rest of his disrupted supplies, but there’s something off in his method. 

Jon feels hot, again, but he doesn’t reach for a bottle of water.

\--

Tim doesn’t give them too much time between getting back and starting the meal. He sets about putting together a campfire and bringing out the food quickly. While the fire catches, Tim lays out a quick-dry towel-turned-picnic blanket with a flourish, bowing low and failing to keep a serious face as he waves at Jon. 

“Maitre Di,” Tim says, then pauses with a quirked brow that unspools some of the cramps from Jon’s muscles. It isn’t that Jon hadn’t tried to help Tim set up for dinner; he’d offered, carefully. But Tim had brushed Jon off, smiling with a forced cheer that gradually grew more genuine as he’d claimed that this was for the _boss_ with a teasing wink. “Actually, I think that’s me?”

“It’s you,” Jon confirms, taking a seat on a corner of the blanket. Tim rolls his eyes and reaches to tug Jon forward, steady when their hands touch.

“You’re going to get dirt on your butt,” Tim states like it’s second nature, quickly reverting to his former bravado. “I have the first course ready to go! Drum roll please…” Tim continues, turning to grab a bowl that he had kept hidden behind the blanket.

After a moment of highly anticipatory silence, Jon pats lightly at his thighs. Tim grins wide.

“Thank you. Now, for the appetizer,” he announces, revealing the bowl. “It’s literally just trail mix and peanut butter apple slices. Honestly, I should’ve offered this earlier. We needed a snack after hiking!”

Jon takes the proffered bowl, studying it carefully before pouring a pile of trail mix into his hand and placing the bowl fastidiously in the center of the blanket. It’s a fancy dinner, after all. 

Jon looks up at Tim as he crunches on the first M&M. Tim is smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled. Tim takes a handful, too, before turning to check the fire and the foil-wrapped packets. Jon stares at his back, at the care he takes with the food, and his stomach burbles. 

_Three-course meal_ , he thinks, taking another handful of trail mix. It’s M&M heavy, and Tim is prodding the wood so knowingly, and his stomach feels weird, and there’s a pressure in his throat.

“The M&M shell,” Jon says without thinking, throat raw. His eyes shift to fix on the campfire instead of Tim’s face as Tim turns back to him, “Did you know they - uh - water soluble?”

Tim tilts his head, frowning slightly. “One second, Jon,” he says, placing the foil packets into the burgeoning flames. 

Jon wonders if it’s normal to feel this hot. It’s warm out, but it’s cooled as the afternoon has passed to evening. He thinks it must be the campfire.

“I apologize,” he starts, but Tim is already twisting around, scooting over to the blanket with a pucker to his lips. “I - sorry, shouldn’t you keep an eye on the fire?”

“Nope,” Tim says, popping the p. He’s tapping at his chin, though, head still tilted and a tiny frown on his face. Jon thinks he knows this frown; it isn’t negative. “They’re pre-cooked, it’ll be fine, but M&M shells! Water soluble. That sounds like a chemistry word.” 

Tim continues to frown, to tap at his chin, and Jon knows it isn’t negative. “God it’s been years,” Tim muses, “Between chemistry and geometry did you think of doing science? Tell me more? Shells _and_ chemistry.”

\--

Throughout dinner, Tim smiles and laughs at everything he says, even the things Jon knows aren’t jokes but quietly thinks are. The food is simple but comfortable, and Tim touches his wrist and encourages him to take seconds. Jon thinks it’s weird that he’s hungry; he still feels hot and his stomach still feels off, but the food is filling and soft in a way that calms him, that loosens his muscles and dissipates the pressure from his throat.

He’s not sure how it is that Tim’s food is helping with whatever outdoor stress he’s feeling, but it is.

After dinner, Tim makes s’mores. He gawks when Jon admits he’d never had any, but once again doesn’t tease. Just squints and says, solemnly, “I did promise you a three-course meal. Everyone knows dessert is already the most important meal, but now it’s, like, _the most_ important.”

Jon watches while Tim stoops over the fire, pokes and prods with gusto and bemoans its state. 

“I can’t believe I know the perfect campfire s’mores temp,” Tim groans, “but I can’t actually _make_ it.”

“I think it looks good,” Jon says. It occurs to him that Tim is gusto and charm and jokes but not taunting, not unless it comes to himself. Tim glances at him with a grin.

“I know, I can’t wait for s’mores, either,” he semi-agrees, but does acquiesce. “Let’s do this.”

They eat s’mores in big, messy bites. Jon lets himself lick the gooey marshmallow from his fingers, swipes melted chocolate into his mouth with his thumb. Tim insists that Jon try making some, and then insists on trying the first one he makes. 

“It’s perfect,” Tim praises. Jon sits back, heavy with the food and the heat.

“I think I’ll leave it to the professional,” Jon says, but makes another when Tim asks.

\--

And afterwards, Tim insists that Jon relax again while he cleans up. 

“Have you ever been stargazing?” Tim calls as he packs away the leftovers and dishes. 

“I haven’t,” Jon admits. Tim hums. Once the fire is out, the rustle of food and the clang of dishes settled, Tim drops down to lay beside him on the blanket.

“I used to bring books with me when I went camping,” Tim explains softly, voice faltering. He stops for a second, eyes skating across the sky, away from Jon. He inhales carefully, modulates his tone. “With my family. Anyways, God, it was so nerdy. Can’t see how that relates to me ending up in publishing.”

Jon smiles, mostly because Tim breaks into a grin, gaze still focused on the stars. 

“So, yeah, I used to bring books when we went camping,” Tim continues, lifting a hand to the sky, fingers splayed wide. Jon follows it; he’s seen stars before, seen night skies with even less light pollution and brighter constellations, but his eyes are wide and his heart is thudding in his ears. He’d like to think it’s from the opportunity to learn, but he still feels so warm.

“I mostly brought things about first aid and plant safety,” Tim explains, “I basically grew up with a Sasha: smart-ass with no common sense,” Tim says, smiling fondly up at the sky. Jon feels the muscle of his heart _ache_. “But at night, there wasn’t much he could do to entertain himself, so I’d bring a book we could read. It was great when I figured out astrology stuff, we’d just lay outside for hours with a flashlight and the book and the whole sky.”

Jon follows Tim’s hand as it sweeps across the sky. He feels so warm, and a little bit dazed. Even more so when Tim’s hand falls to the ground, so close to his leg. 

“Some of the stories were insane, like way too much about Zeus fucking around or punishing Hera. Who he was cheating on! Did you know that’s what the Cancer crab is about?” Tim asks, hand flying back up, gesticulating wildly. He almost hits Jon in his excitement, but Jon doesn’t mind, goosebumps rising on the skin that Tim’s hand brushed.

“Did not tell _those_ to Danny,” Tim says, stops. Jon doesn’t know who Danny is, but Tim is so quiet.

“Are any of the ones you liked...are they - out? - here? In the sky?” he tries. Tim looks up at him, blinks.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, “I think so? It’s been a while, I think I’m rusty!” he laughs, but he quickly points up at the sky again, excitement in his focus. “Speaking of Zeus, the Milky Way is...there. Near the end, see the arrow shape? That’s Alquila. Did you know an _eagle_ carried Zeus’ lightning bolts? Asshole said infidelity _and_ animal abuse. The arrow is the head and wings, and the line going down is the body.” 

Jon nods, following Tim’s hand. He doesn’t think he quite sees it, everything looking more or less like blobs, but he can see the Milky Way. 

“I didn’t think you could see the Milky Way from...here,” Jon breathes. He doesn’t mind that it’s without thinking. This is Tim. He doesn’t have to look to check for crinkles at the corners of Tim’s eyes, for wrinkles in his cheeks. He can hear them.

“Yeah,” Tim says, “There’s so much out there. If you look...this way, see the cross?” he asks, tracing a cross with his finger, “Northern Cross. It’s actually supposed to be a swan, uh,” he pauses, “Yeah, I never told that one. Zeus swan seduction, super not family friendly.”

“No,” Jon agrees. He looks down at Tim, at that; Tim’s still staring up at the sky, face soft. The ache buries deeper into Jon’s heart.

“It’s a little basic,” Tim murmurs, “But I always liked the big and little dipper best. Ursa major and minor, big and little bear. They’re supposed to be mom and son. It’s kind of sad, because their best viewing times are during different parts of the year and the story is also about Zeus, but even then they still can’t be split up. They’re always going to be together, even when they physically aren’t.”

Dizzy, Jon lays back. Tim looks over to him, eyes meeting his, and looks at him like he is a constellation, like he is made of stars.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Tim says, gaze unblinking. “I haven’t had someone to go camping with in a while. My family used to go, but we’re all...split up. We can’t really anymore.”

Jon stares at him, warm and dizzy and aching. “Thank you for asking me,” he says, and his head tilts to rest against Tim’s shoulder. Bare shoulder, because Tim’s wearing a tank top.

Bare shoulder, and Tim freezes moments after Jon’s forehead touches his skin. Jon freezes too, breath catching and dizziness spinning. He begins to pull away, but Tim moves faster, twisting around to face him, the back of his hand coming up to press against Jon’s forehead.

“Tim - ” Jon starts, but Tim is shaking his head, eyes wide.

“Jon,” Tim says, voice pitched, “Jon, you’re warm, like _really warm_ . I don’t - that’s _not_ good.”

Jon blinks up at him, breath still stuttering. He’s not sure what to say. Tim’s eyes are so wide.

“I don’t - I feel fine,” he mumbles. “I’m a little...a little dizzy?”

Tim nods. Jon can tell he tries to force the creases from his forehead, tries to smoothen his piqued brow, but it only makes it worse. 

“Okay,” Tim says, “That’s - do you think you can sit up?” Tim’s hands shift down, one resting against his shoulder, one hovering at Jon’s waist. Jon’s breath catches, tension increasing in every line of Tim’s body. 

“I - yes - Tim?” Jon tries, but Tim is _go_ , already moving to help him sit. Tim smiles once he’s up, face still undeniably tight. 

“Good, good,” Tim says, up, too, standing with fluttering hands and looking over at the doused fire, at the shut cooler. “Okay, we have a few ice packs left, we should bring the cooler anyways - ”

“Bring?” Jon asks breathily. Tim nods, looking to him and then away.

“Yeah, get you inside, you could have heatstroke, Jon, let’s get you up,” Tim replies, mile a minute. For a second, Jon’s mind blanks with something like panic. Before he can realize, Tim has helped him up, one arm swung around his waist, the other hooked around the cooler and picnic blanket. 

“Good to walk?” Tim asks. Jon nods, and Tim smiles that tense smile once again.

\--

They make their way halfway back to the car before Jon’s mind catches up with him.

“Tim,” he says, stopping in his tracks. It’s almost comical how Tim startles to a stop, twists around, the arm not holding Jon up flinging akimbo.

“What’s, is something wrong?” Tim asks, panicked, “Car’s only a little further - ”

“No,” Jon blurts. For the first time today, he feels almost like a child. But his chest isn’t _that_ tight, his face isn’t _that_ warm. “We don’t have to leave?”

Tim stares; Jon can’t make him out as well in this dark, but he can still make out the wide whites of Tim’s eyes. “Okay,” Tim says, stumbling over his words, “Okay. I’m sorry, we don’t - we can go to the car, and get A/C, and then figure it out. Okay?”

Jon blinks, nods slowly. He still feels something like inexperience, almost wants to bristle, but he doesn’t. Can’t bring himself to or simply can’t, he’s unsure. “Okay,” he responds, stepping forward. 

Tim fumbles into following, into guiding, into supporting. For the first time since they’d left the campsite, Jon feels the heat of Tim’s arm around his waist. His face isn’t _that_ warm, but the places where Tim’s fingers rest against his waist, where Tim’s side presses against his - that’s warm, and the warmth lingers after Tim releases him once they get to the car, and there’s new warmth when Tim presses his hands to Jon’s hips, helping him up into the driver’s seat.

“There you go,” Tim murmurs, hands lingering at Jon’s sides even after he’s settled into the seat. The car and the A/C is on, vents tilted to focus on Jon’s face and neck. But Tim’s hands drop away, because Tim is _going_. 

“Ice packs and water,” he mumbles, digging through the cooler frantically. A part of Jon thinks to reach out, snap at Tim that he isn’t a child, leave him alone. Most of Jon thinks to reach out, tell Tim he’s fine, slow down. He’s frozen, though, letting Tim open the water bottle for him, letting Tim swipe the melted ice packs across his skin. If he moves, his hands could shake. If he moves, his skin could burn Tim’s.

He’s not a child. He’s fine. He’s been quiet for too long.

“I promise there isn’t any river water in these,” Tim says, smile a thread. It breaks immediately, Jon taking too long to respond. Tim’s hands twitch around the ice packs. “God, I’m sorry Jon. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have - have forced you out here. I haven’t done this in so long.” 

Jon starts to shake his head, to open his mouth, but Tim has stopped staring. He’s glaring at his hands, at the ice, not even focusing on Jon’s skin. 

“I just - it’s been a mess, huh?” he asks, snorting out a disparaging laugh, hands twitching. “I’m so sorry for putting you in this.” 

“I - ” Jon starts clumsily, jaw and tongue and cheeks heavy, “I - I dropped the sleep roll. And the water, the bugs. I messed up.”

Tim seems to hear him, but still shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have brought the bags with us,” Tim continues. “I don’t know why I did that! I should’ve strung them up. God, I don’t know why I got the river water either, we didn’t have to clean up, and I should’ve fucking watched for bugs - I’d _say_ I don’t usually lose my shit out here like this, but I haven’t camped in so long. I guess that’s just how I am now. Probably how I’ve always been.”

“I thought,” Jon tries. He’s glad Tim isn’t looking, isn’t touching, because he can feel warmth filling him. “I thought...you’ve been perfect. I’ve had...fun.”

“Maybe, but I couldn’t take care of you,” Tim says plaintively, softly, almost too soft for Jon to hear. “I used to be so _good_ at taking care of him. Or I thought I was. I wanted to give that to you, I think, but it’s selfish. I wanted to know I could still be that.”

Jon’s barely able to move, everything tight and straining so hard he’s still. Somehow, he manages to shake his head, even though Tim isn’t looking. “I think...I think I’ve felt like this all day,” he manages to say. Tim’s head snaps up, expression horrified.

“Jon,” he says, looking panicked, and Jon knows he deserves being blamed.

That isn’t why Tim panicked, though. “Jon, I should’ve fucking asked how you were feeling, I shouldn’t have joked - I’m _so sorry_.” 

Jon finally, finally manages to snap out of it, manages to move, throat heavy but open. “No! No - I don’t think I’m sick. I don’t know what - I don’t know,” he struggles, because he doesn’t know what this is.

Tim is still staring, still panicked and wide. But there’s _something_ tender in his eyes when he manages a fragile nod. “That’s okay,” he says, voice small, that _something_ there, too. “I’ll - _We’ll_ figure it out. Are you still warm?”

Jon nods. Shakes his head. Tim’s hands would be resting on his thighs, if not for the forgotten ice packs between them. Jon still feels warm, and he doesn’t know why, but it’s different, he knows, than being sick. He thinks Tim knows it, too.

Tim smiles shakily. “I still think you’re a little dehydrated, but I think we’re good to stay. Are you - do you want to go lay down in the tent? With some water?”

Jon nods. He doesn’t say anything about the one sleeping roll. He knows that’s not what matters. Tim returns the packs to the cooler, steady when he swings the supplies back into his hold, but still faltering when he reaches to help Jon up. Jon closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and bridges the distance, guiding Tim’s arm back around his waist. 

\--

They reverse positions when they get to the tent, Jon laying, Tim sitting beside him. But Jon is on his belly and there’s a water bottle crushed tight in Tim’s grip. And this time, Tim is awkwardly looking back at him, both unable to look anywhere else.

The silence is broken intermittently by Tim pushing the water on Jon - until Tim suddenly huffs a quiet laugh when Jon has to crane his neck to drink while still laying on his stomach. Jon raises his brows up at him.

“Sorry,” Tim says, smile still shaky, but growing stronger, “I kind of want to rub your back? I’ve read sleeping on your stomach is bad for it.”

Jon feels warm, again, but he thinks of Tim’s family, he thinks of Sasha, and he thinks he’s starting to get it. “Okay,” Jon says, and if Tim is surprised he doesn’t show it. He just places a hand at the small of Jon’s back and kneads in slow, tentative circles. 

The more Jon drinks from the bottle, the more he feels Tim begin to relax. He watches as Tim slowly begins to lower himself onto his side and elbow, head propped up on one hand, the other running up and down Jon’s spine. Jon smiles at him, takes a sip, and reaches to tug at Tim’s elbow.

“Bad for your back,” Jon tries to tease. Tim finally gives a full smile, lowers himself all the way onto his side.

“Happy?” Tim asks. His hand is a warm pressure on Jon’s back. Jon’s face is still warm, hasn’t stopped being warm, but he thinks they both understand now. He shifts himself over, reaching to pull Tim onto the sleeping roll. 

“Very,” Jon replies. Jon knows they understand, now, because Tim wriggles onto the roll, and doesn’t pull away when Jon presses his forehead to Tim’s. “Thank you, Tim. I’ve... _been_ happy.” 

Tim’s breath hitches a little, but it’s warm. Almost comfortable.

“Tim?” Jon says after a moment, forehead still pressed to Tim’s. “I think I like you.”

“Yeah,” Tim replies. Jon can feel Tim’s forehead wrinkle against his in a smile. “I think I like you too.”

They sit like that, Tim rubbing his hand in circles on Jon’s back. Jon feels a hum in his every exhale; it’s content. 

“I,” Jon murmurs, haltingly. He struggles between pulling away or not, but he can’t quite bring himself to lose that warmth. “I need to talk to Sasha.”

Tim barks a laugh that catches, attempting to quiet it. “God, I have to talk to her too. And about her with you.” 

Jon tries to shift at that, moving his head and pressing his feet to the ground. Tim shushes him, hooking a leg over his and circling the warm pressure of his arm around the crook of his waist. 

“We can talk about her later,” he says, “Just rest. Right now is about you.”

Jon tucks his head under Tim’s chin, mind soft. 

\-- 

Tim wakes him up a couple of times throughout the night to drink water, the two of them curled close. Near daybreak, Jon stumbles out of the tent to pee, Tim cheering him on. Jon thinks he should be mortified over it, but it’s Tim. Hopefully his, maybe even their, Tim, and Jon knows Tim has so much care in his heart that he can’t help but show it.

When he wakes up for the last time, though, the space beside him is empty. It’s quiet; he can tell that the sun is up overhead. As he shifts to get up, he notices the sleeping bags nested loosely around him. There’s a bottle of water with electrolytes already added in next to him and a protein bar. Jon smiles, taking a slow sip from the water before sitting up completely, moving to exit the tent.

Tim’s outside, quietly sitting by a pot on the campfire. He looks over at the tent as Jon rustles out, the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“Morning, sleepy-head,” Tim calls, voice pitched low and awkwardly quiet. Jon smiles. “How’re you feeling?”

“Alright,” Jon replies as he makes his way over. Tim smiles, so very full, up at him.

“Better, though?” he asks.

Jon nods, taking a seat beside Tim. Tim hums contentedly in response, reaching out to take Jon’s hand unthinkingly, the other tapping a spoon against his thigh. There’s oatmeal bubbling in the pot; Jon can see the jar of peanut butter and tupperware of fruit next to Tim. 

“Still happy,” Jon says. Tim squeezes his hand.

“I started packing while I was waiting for the water,” Tim says. Jon begins to startle, but Tim moves to rub his thumb over Jon’s knuckles before Jon can. “There’s a cute town a little ways up, lots of little shops and things according to Yelp. I bet we could get a motel with a kitchenette, though, I still want more of your s’mores.”

“We don’t have to leave,” Jon says. Tim tilts his head to rest against Jon’s shoulder.

“Oh, I know,” Tim says, “Think of it like being in research, though. This was our pilot! We have all the data, now it’s time to regroup and figure things out,” he pauses, briefly, thumb circling around the back of Jon’s hand. “Figure _us_ out. And then we can come back and do the full study!”

Jon can only see the top of Tim’s head, but he knows Tim is smiling.

“We still have a couple of days, though,” Tim continues, “So we can fit in another pilot - a new pilot, one that’s only ever been tested between us.”

Jon squeezes Tim’s hand, rests his cheek against the top of Tim’s head, warm and full inside and out. “I would really like that,” he replies, “Both of those things.”

There’s a moment of silence, of them listening to the oatmeal bubbling, the morning birds in the trees, their own slow, steady breathing. Tim eventually lifts his head to return to the food, but he pauses. He doesn’t kiss Jon’s cheek, but he does press his forehead briefly to Jon’s.

“And for the full study we can bring Sasha,” Tim says.

Jon pauses, thinks of Sasha and her exploratory brilliance. He also thinks of Sasha and her bike in the outdoors. “Maybe not?” he squeaks. 

Tim laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love food-love metaphors and I LOVE JonTim-related food-love metaphors . I’ve had a spaghetti and wine WIP in my drafts forever that was meant to go in a post-s3 au but makes no sense out of context lol. To plug [more art](https://tanis-drawings-2point0.tumblr.com/post/635523440273752064/id-two-full-body-drawings-of-tim-stoker-and)...anyways I just think Tim and Jon are major food-as-love types!
> 
> Anyways really spent 100+ years writing an unnecessarily long fic about how Jon can have emotional depth around Sasha but no thoughts head empty around Tim. (Lowkey it’s because Jon and Sasha I think are on a very similar wavelength whereas Tim processes things differently, if that makes sense? Which is why he was less stressed figuring out Sasha last chapter rip.)

**Author's Note:**

> Jon: I mean it makes sense but where’d Georgie and Melanie dating come from -
> 
> Jon’s beholding eyes blasting wide open to see Melanie Enjoying being on the handlebars and Georige/Melanie switching off who’s biking because they’re Both Like That:
> 
> Jon: Ah. Yes. That makes sense.


End file.
